


Trigger

by kentucka



Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: First Time, M/M, Panic Attack, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-05
Updated: 2010-09-05
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:09:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kentucka/pseuds/kentucka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>G never liked being restrained.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trigger

Callen itches to go in, his fingers twitching against his thighs. But he makes himself sit still, controls his breathing just to have something to do. Kensi will be back any minute. G imagines her driving like the little devil she is: lead foot, running stop signs and waving through highway traffic. She's aware that every single second counts now.

Sam's inside that bar, will sweet-talk his way into being taken to the warehouse soon, with essentially no backup. And G's sitting right outside in a stupid van, on his ass, glaring at Dom who's bouncing his feet impatiently as well, willing Eric to bring the audio back online, willing Kensi to get back faster.

Dom feels the stare; he turns briefly and his eyes widen almost comically at whatever he sees on Callen's face. Bloody murder, most likely, if something doesn't give _right now_.

The back doors of the van suddenly pull open and G has his gun drawn and cocked before his brain catches up and recognizes Kensi's curls. She doesn't look fazed at all.

"I swear sometimes you're faster than your shadow," she says lightly, but frowns the way she always does when she worries. G's not sure if she worries more about his mental health or Sam's physical.

She hands Callen the new transmitter, and Eric takes over introductions via the video link on one of the monitors: "Mic 2.0, still experimental. Improved shielding, boosted signal, different frequency, GPS included. Technically just working its ways around your run-of-the-mill jammers you can buy at Wal-Mart these days."

"Not exactly matching Sam's outfit," G puts in as he turns the thing over in his hand. It's a huge, polished hard plastic shank button. Reminds G of one of his earlier foster moms, a bright red winter coat with black buttons as big as his hands had been at the time.

Eric tilts his head and smiles apologetically. "Like I said, still in experimentation. They work on the tech before they focus on the packaging."

*

G's still in his street casual, but Kensi was smart enough to grab the leather jacket off Hetty's wardrobe so he'll stand out a little less in the biker bar. He dons the jacket, pockets the gigantic microphone, and nods at Eric. "I'll need a sign if the new mic's working."

Eric turns around and points to another monitor behind him at Headquarters displaying a media player user interface. "I hacked the laptop in the bar which streams the music. If the bug works, the next song once you're inside will be _Carry On My Wayward Son_. If it's being blocked too, it's _Highway To Hell_."

"How subtle," G grouses.

"Easy to remember," Eric quips, like Callen ever forgets stuff this important. But it makes them all smile, which G's grateful for.

Finally allowed to move, he hops out of the van and goes around front, entering the bar from the parking lot. He scans the crowd and finds Sam at one of the pool tables. His partner looks fine, comfy, watching Gunnery Sergeant Hauser and one of his biker gang acquaintances take turns on the cue ball. They're both horrible players.

But G can see the edge in Sam's smile, the tension in his back, wary and ready for a fight. Sam's also probably not aware that his team can't hear him.

As he sits down at the bar, G checks to make sure he has no cell reception either and growls at it, refraining from smashing the useless piece. He orders a beer and waits for the song to change.

*

 _Heads Explode_ fades into nothingness. Three minutes haven't felt this long in a while, and G can't quite keep himself from holding his breath. He spins the bottle in his hand, captures a few drops of condensation and rubs the water away between his fingers, until abruptly, three a cappella voices come over the speakers. He almost jumps. Relieved, G takes a large pull from his beer, while half the bar howls along like a pack of wolves.

The barkeeper's still laughing when he replaces G's empty bottle. "It's a classic," he says as if he needs to apologize for the other patrons, and like a light switch, all the amusement's gone when he looks over G's shoulder. Callen's stomach drops. Did somebody in here recognize him from a previous op? Did Hauser spot him when G tailed him the night before?

When he turns, the sight doesn't give him reason to relax in the slightest. Sam's stalking towards him, fists balled and face tight with so many questions. He knows by G's appearance alone that something's not right. "You gotta be kidding me!" Sam leans right into his partner's personal space, but G rolls with it, leans away and shifts his eyes down.

"Aww fuck, ain't it enough that you _crashed_ my bike? I have to walk places now. Can't I grab a few beers in peace at the one place that's close-by?" He's prepared for Sam to blink at the key word, to digest the hint that the bug is dead. Certainly not to end up slammed against the wall, with only a blur for a memory how he got there. "Shit!" G doesn't have to infuse his voice with shock; he scrabbles for leverage on that arm pinning him in place. Sam's hand is wrapped around his throat, not actually cutting off G's air but surely leaving a handprint, and it's enough for real terror to roll through him in waves. He wants to kick and scratch and _fight_. He knows he can't. Except it doesn't matter by who, he's being held down and --

Sam steps in, doesn't release him but leans in until his mouth is right next to G's ear. "Sh, I've got you."

The dichotomy of threat and reassurance is enough to snap G out of it. He feels himself settling back into his own body. Keeps pulling at Sam's arm for appearances, swallows heavily when it doesn't work. He stops trying when Sam catches his eyes, checks in with him.

Sam's voice is low and dangerous, but it carries over the bar which has all but fallen silent. "Oh no, I think you're getting off way too easy. I should hack _you_ into pieces, not a scrap of metal."

His fist pulls back, and G's hands immediately fly up to push at Sam's shoulders. He has no intention of actually getting punched tonight. Blocked from view by their arms and bodies, he lets the new microphone slide into the breast pocket of Sam's shirt. "I'm sorry! Okay?" he yells and tries to look desperate, eyes wide and shifting between Sam's face and fist. "I'm sorry I tried to sell you fake parts. It's not gonna happen again. What else do you want?"

Sam doesn't look all that convinced, but the Gunny pats his shoulder and gestures for G to take a hike, and quick. "He ain't worth it," Hauser consoles, while G pulls out a few bills to leave on the bar, and flees.

*

After the bust, G disappears.

It's not like he's hiding, just leaving for his hotel as soon as he's done typing up his report. And avoiding the others on his way out. They're used to it, he knows they won't worry.

Nevertheless, he's not even home for half an hour when somebody knocks at his door. G smiles when he opens. "Should I be honored that you're not picking the lock?"

Sam returns the grin and walks in, looking around the small room. Single bed, fresh sheets, a little table tucked in the corner with a lone chair pulled up. G reckons it's still better than the last place he had to share with a family of cockroaches.

"I don't suppose you brought beer?" Although Sam's not carrying any bags, so it's a rhetorical question.

Done inspecting the furniture, Sam turns around and actually looks hesitant. "I'm sorry, for... that thing in the bar."

G won't quote Gibbs now even though he's tempted just to piss Sam off. He always thought it was a load of crap; that appearing weak shouldn't matter between friends. Anyways, he's also not in the mood to go over the whole incident again. He'll be fine telling himself that he overreacted and next time he'll have a thicker skin, get used to Sam pushing him around undercover. "There's nothing to be sorry for," G says slowly, knowing it's a lost cause. With these things Sam gets like Nate, he smells blood and he won't stop licking at the wound and he won't let it go, even if it's already started to scab over.

Predictably, Sam looks at him like he just said something spectacularly stupid. Worse, like Sam knows G really believes whatever lie he just fed his partner. "That wasn't nothing. Look, G, I didn't think about it. Maybe thought you'd be fine if it was me, if I didn't keep your arms--"

"Sam," G cuts him off, really doesn't like where Sam's headed with this. "Sam, you're my partner. I trust you." He looks Sam in the eye, tries to force every ounce of faith he has in him into his voice. "Today, I just-- I'm not sure, maybe it was the adrenaline rush. You're in that bar and we don't know what's happening, and then I can finally bring you the new mic and suddenly you're going all nemesis on me, and I braced myself for a fight and then -- that. I swear, the second my head was clear enough to realize that you had to play bully, and I wasn't supposed to fight back, I was fine. I just needed a moment to find my footing. I trust you, Big Guy."

All his conviction might not be enough, though. The fact that he flashed back to wherever, that being held immobile suddenly felt like a threat, speaks volumes about how much not okay he is. And Sam believes in actions, not words. So G holds out his hands, as if waiting to be cuffed. "I'll prove it, Sam. Do it."

Sam just stares at his outstretched arms. "Are you crazy? I've always known that this is a trigger for you, and I'm okay with it. The only reason I came here was to apologize for assuming it somehow, magically, didn't apply to me."

Time to change tactics. G tells himself he's not manipulating, even if it feels that way. "I'd really like to get there, though." Maybe that's the truth.

It seems to have done the trick; Sam's speechless for a second. Then he steps closer, and slowly wraps his hands around G's wrists. He keeps it loose at first, barely-there pressure. G knows he's being monitored closely, but so far he has no trouble allowing it. Sam's hands are warm and a little calloused. He starts cataloging them when Sam grips a bit harder, thinks about how Sam can probably check his pulse now. Stronger still, and G's heart skips a beat. The urge to pull his hands back grows, but he's not there yet, and G wonders what would be worse: if Sam held him fast, or if he'd let him go. He wants to prove to himself that he doesn't have to be handled with velvet gloves. He's been in law enforcement for ages, he can take care of himself, and okay, maybe he's also a little eccentric. But he can push past a stupid anxiety and come out stronger for it. Otherwise he'll always be a liability to his own team.

By now the pressure around his wrists is uncomfortable. G's heart rate hasn't picked up, and he knows deep down that he could easily stay here for another hour, so he counts it as a win.

"Pull away," Sam suggests.

Which translates into: Let's see how those instincts take over when you realize you really can't get away, even if you wanted to. Cautiously, G tugs with his right. He quells the panic that instantly threatens to constrict his throat with determination. _This is Sam_ , he reminds himself. _My partner, my room, my fucking idea. I can do this._ He tugs again, more forcefully, and tries to imagine their sparring sessions. He's always felt safe with Sam at his back, even when they were both trying to see the other go down onto the mat first. "Okay," he breathes, then pulls hard with his right and shoves his left shoulder forward, enough to twist them both off-balance and he lands on Sam in a heap.

Sam has let go to brace himself against the fall rather unsuccessfully, and G smiles brightly from on top of his chest. "I'm okay."

Sam grunts in annoyance, cuts his eyes down to G's face, and grins.

*

It's better, after the 'experiment'. Sam's no different of course; he never brought it up before, and he doesn't do now either. But G relaxes a bit, knowing he can control the fear if he puts his mind to it.

He should have suspected this hadn't been the end of it.

*

A typical day at the office. They busted a smuggling Petty Officer Second Class, and do not ask why they have to brief the Director personally on a case as insignificant as rate and contraband would suggest.

"Did you see how disappointed he was?" G asks later, as they walk through OSP's maze of corridors.

"Maybe Vance knew the kid and had hoped he'd be able to resist temptation a little better," Sam replies.

G mulls it over, code of honor versus greed, conscience versus paid bills. He looks up a couple of minutes later to find them standing in one of the truly decrepit parts of the vast building. "Are we lost?"

Sam huffs indignantly. "I don't get lost!"

"Well, what do you call it?" G's gesture encompasses the crumbling plaster all over the corridor intersection they stopped in.

"Taking you to someplace you haven't been to yet, obviously." When G only regards him skeptically, Sam adds: "Follow me?"

"Oh for fuck's sake… If we don't find our way back before five, I'm calling Eric to locate our phones' GPS," G threatens, but he's already catching up to his partner with questionable sense of direction.

Three more turns, and they step out into a courtyard which nature apparently reconquered a few years ago. Slim oaks have drilled their roots through the cobblestone, ivy ranks around what has once been a bird bath, bushes with small red and yellow flowers grow between the high grass.

It's quite the romantic setting, and there are a hundred smart-ass jokes about it on the tip of G's tongue, yet he can't bring himself to ruin the moment. "It's beautiful," he says instead.

Either Sam misinterprets it as mocking, or he chooses to ignore the rare, quiet Callen, and talks right over his head. "It is and if you're any good at your job, you'll know how to find it after I lead us back."

It's only at these words that G recognizes the point Sam was trying to make: It's a present, a hide-away if work ever gets too much, and part of the offer is that Sam will not follow him here, will keep it a secret. But all that's unspoken and so he only nods; voicing his thanks would mean to acknowledge it, to give it more power than Sam wants it to have.

"I thought about testing something else," G hears himself say. It feels strange, but he needs to give something back if there's no other way for him to show his appreciation. If this turns out to be just like the one weeks ago, it could be the same understatement, the same importance for the two of them.

Sam faces him and waits (maybe not catching on, maybe not wanting to assume), so G continues, "what happened in that bar."

This time, Sam doesn't ask if he's out of his mind. Only tries to read him for a moment, while G hangs onto his resolve. He doesn't bother hiding his uncertainty: He has no idea how he'll react if Sam gets into his face again, because that's the freaking point. And between one heartbeat and the next, Sam moves and G's back scratches on raw brick and his fingers crawl under Sam's to pry the hand away from his throat.

Sam's stepped in close again, full-body entrapment, and this time he doesn't soothe. His face stays barely an inch away; his nose almost brushes G's cheek. _Fuck_ , G thinks, _fuck_. He blinks, can't breathe, tense all over as he wills himself not to lose it completely, not to go into full-on battle mode, and with more effort than it should be, he focuses on Sam's eyes. They're dark and assessing, causing a chill to run down G's spine. He has no idea what that means until his breath hitches and it burns in his lungs, and all the way down to his groin.

He realizes now that he still has air; although tighter than at the bar, the hand's still not actually strangling him. He moves to take his own weight back, but that shifts his achingly hard cock against Sam's hip, and G freezes.

He almost wants to laugh at how suddenly, the claustrophobic anxiety evaporates and leaves only crystal-clear embarrassment in its wake. At least he's still got some of his priorities straight.

Slowly and carefully, he uncurls his fingers from around Sam's, fixates some point over Sam's shoulder, and simply waits for his partner to step back again. He doesn't doubt that they'll still be partners – they both stand above such trivialities as an unexpected erection – but it still makes for one hell of an awkward moment.

Until he realizes that Sam's still there, that his thumb has even started to move in a slight, possibly absent-minded caress over G's pulse point.

"Are you okay?"

G rallies his last functioning brain cells to make sense of the question. His own choice of words after the last 'experiment', but did he consider being turned on a victory over his fighting instincts? "I guess so."

Now Sam takes a step backwards, lets G right himself.

"And you?" G finally meets Sam's gaze again, although he has no idea what to look for. The man seems relaxed, more than he has a right to be under the circumstances, if G has any say in it.

"Yeah." His eyes drop to G's mouth and he licks his lips. Damn if G has ever seen a more obvious come-on in his life. Damn if it isn't hot as all hell.

Sam's throwing him a curve-ball, which thankfully are G Callen's specialty.

He closes the distance between them again, away from the brick wall and towards the solid heat of Sam's body. "More?" he asks, heart pounding in his ears again, but this time there's no fear. Only exhilaration.

Sam's eyes widen a little in surprise, but he knows he's been caught staring, and he wouldn't be much of an undercover operative if he didn't know when to take advantage of what's being offered on a silver platter. G wants to tell him that, wants to analyze in detail why he and Sam make such a good team on the job, why he thinks of Sam so highly. He trusts this man with his life. Him still standing upright proves that it's well taken care of.

But it's not necessary, because Sam can read it off his face. He already knows what their friendship means to G. That this will be simply an extension.

Sam leans forward, backing G up until they're supported by the wall again. Sam's eyes close and with great care, he touches their lips together. Soft and chaste. The simplicity of it overwhelms G for a moment. One of Sam's hands goes to the back of G's neck, urges him to tilt his head. Sam opens his mouth slightly and captures G's lower lip, laps at it, then licks his way into G's mouth. G groans at the feeling of their tongues pushing and rolling against each other. He wraps one hand around Sam's biceps and rests the other on the small of Sam's back, pulling him closer until their erections press together, and this time they both moan.

Their hands work their ways under shirts to caress each other's skin. G traces the defined abs, learns by touch what he has seen many times over. He finally lets himself give in to the urge to map out Sam's body, every curve and dip, how far he can press until soft skin becomes corded muscle.

Sam keeps himself busy, too. He pushes up G's shirt and aims straight for the nipples, causing G to gasp and his hips to thrust involuntarily. The kiss now broken, Sam ducks down and licks at the nubs while palming G's ass. Sam's five-o-clock shadow bristles on G's chest but adds a pleasant trail of warmth as he moves along, mouthing and kissing every single bullet scar reverently.

He's probably thanking some deity that G is still here. He's still around although G's so much of a hassle, dangerous even. He's still here and he's never given up on him and it's too much, G has to pull Sam up and kisses him fiercely, almost as much punishment as gratitude. He only breaks away to strip Sam of his shirt, lets Sam worry about G's button-down while he struggles with their jeans. Their hands get in each other's way but they manage somehow, and they hiss in turn when their flies are open and their underwear pushed aside. Sam aligns them, and G wraps his hands around both their cocks -- teamwork. G watches Sam's expression (focused, happy) until their foreheads touch and then their lips. G's eyes slide shut again and the kisses gradually deepen; G has to breathe through his nose or he'll suffocate. Sam won't let him up, even as the tingling in his spine spreads. He wants to prolong it, isn't ready to move on from this moment, not when it's everything he could want. Sam's hands are kneading his butt as he pulls them together in counter-rhythm to G's strokes, and G wants to stay right here. Here, where Sam's attention, Sam's touch, Sam's body is his.

G's about to loosen his grip when Sam grunts, and again, with each shove towards each other, and G figures they're both beyond the point of no return. Instead he makes sure to catch as much of their precome as he can on the up-stroke, rubs his palm over the heads of their cocks, and sends the world behind his eyelids spinning. He's coming, with Sam's tongue still in his mouth and their cocks alongside each other in his hand. His body tenses all over, neck, back, thighs and toes; the orgasm rips through him.

For a few seconds, time becomes inconsequential.

One after the other, his senses come back to him. His shoulder blades are rubbed raw from the brick, despite his shirt bearing the brunt. He's hot, almost unbearably so, though he's not going to tell Sam to move anytime soon. He smells sweat and sex. He tastes Sam. He can tell, now, that Sam is coffee and mint. He smiles at the thought and feels lips gliding over his again, opens his mouth to greet Sam's tongue once more, leisurely.

When they pull back, G opens his eyes again, sweeps them down over shimmering dark skin against which his tan appears almost white. He wants to look his fill of a thoroughly spent and relaxed Sam. His partner seems to enjoy the moment similarly, as he smoothes a hand over muscles and scar-tissue and light chest-hair.

"Okay," G sighs, and bows his back to touch their messy stomachs together again, grinning as they start to stick. "I don't suppose SEALs train to be prepared for this kind of thing?"

Sam grimaces and laughs at the same time. He manhandles G out of his ruined shirt and wipes them both down, then carefully wraps it into a bundle and hands it back to G. "Whatever you tell them we did, your shirt was the loser."

*

It's so much worse after that. Sam, of course, is no different. He still bickers with G and calls him on his bullshit. G however... is scared someone else will figure out that his neck is still his weak spot, yet for a completely new, different reason.

**Author's Note:**

> Gunnery Sergeant Hauser's name is a nod to Cole Hauser, the actor portraying my favorite badass Johns in _Pitch Black_.


End file.
